si vis amari, ama
by TenTenD
Summary: To those that love (and not only)... Collection of drabbles concerning pairings that have taken my fancy.
1. king stag

King Stag with all his court makes merry, giving hardly a thought to all the death and destruction outside the city walls. They bring out the dragon skulls and the Red Witch, as some have taken to calling Queen Shireen's little helper, sacrifices men to her God just to mock the hollow sockets that used to be eyes. Edric drinks deep from his cup, his arm around his other Queen's waist. It is a strange sight, one golden haired lioness and two tawny stags that have taken to living together.

Shireen and Myrcella, night and day, they sit next to Edric, obsidian and gold, power and love. King Stag smiles at one and holds the other, and they rule this vast empire all three of them together as they should.

Sweet wine and meats, they cover the rotting corpses in the streets with veils of music and cheer. And the world spins on as it has always done. The fires burn and the bodies pile, and King Stag and all his court make merry, for there is the glory and theirs the triumph. And you may hear it whispered that Edric spoils both his Queen, granting their every wish. For one hold his heart, the other his crown; and together they are almost one woman whole.


	2. the shadows too

Rhaegar supposes he should feel anger, he should feel slighted, cheated, insulted even. Yet looking at Elia he can summon nothing but vague sympathy. He doesn't love her – he never did – and the chance of it growing between them has burned away long ago. (And Lyanna still fills his dreams, with her far off gaze and slightly awkward mannerism, which reminds him more of a girl than of a woman.)

Aegon sleeps in his mother's arms, his pale-lilac eyes closed. "And Rhaenys?" His daughter is all her mother, dark eyes and dark hair; it would be impossible to tell if she is his or Arthur's. So he asks.

"She is yours," Elia responds, rocking her son gently. Her golden skin seems almost waxen in the dim light, she's still too pale, still to weak. Rhaegar nods his head slowly. He doesn't sit up from his chair.

"I've left Lyanna with Arthur," he says, almost casually. "When I come back, I shall free the both of us." Because Elia deserves to be happy as much as he. It is only then that he makes to depart. "Rhaenys remains with me. (He's so very sure that Lyanna will accept his daughter with open arms, and raise her alongside whatever children are born to them.)


	3. lord snow

When all her sisters are gone and her mother too, Lyanna Mormont knows that she cannot fall to her knees and cry. Instead, she walks the halls of Castle Black, the shades whispering to her. She can't weep.

"It is not wrong to grieve," Lord Commander Snow tells her. He is such a grim, stern-faced man. Lyanna gazes upon Longclaw at his side. Again she has to remind herself that her uncle gave the sword to him. Why? Perhaps because he though him worthy of it. Or did he consider him a son?

"Later, Lord Snow," Lyanna whispers. She expects that he will leave her here, with falling, frozen tears. Instead he guides her to a bench, encouraging her to place her head on his shoulder. Lyanna misses her sisters and her mother horribly by now. "Does it ever end?"

"No," he answers. And to this Lyanna can but smile, for she remembers what they used to say about his father. Starks are no liars, neither is he. (For he's a Stark as much as his siblings had been.) "I don't think so." He pats her back gently, brotherly even. The young woman still smiles through her tears.

Lyanna hums softly in the back of her throat. The ghosts are not so loud any longer. Winter has come.


	4. crumble

Red spills across her lips, down her chin and in her lap. Lyanna lets put a sigh of frustration and makes to rise when her breath is cut off by a sudden, visceral pain. (Her chest is tight, her ribs ache, like someone has broken them with a blunt object.) Her hand automatically goes to her chest, where she can feel her hear beating wildly. A choked cry is caught in her throat, and this time another sort of red starts staining her dress. She doesn't even wonder – there's too much pain for her to - why it is her upper body hurting.

When the pain has spread throughout her entire frame, Lyanna can almost taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth, her nostrils filled with its scent. The curious thing is that before her eyes the sky is blue and the grass is green and the river laps at the lush earth. (Shouldn't she be seeing sands and high suns and too much light?) It strikes her that the eyes she sees through are not hers, because slowly, slowly she is engulfed by water. How can she be when Lyanna feels the mattress underneath her? Something like panic grips her, and from there on whether its drowning or suffocating, it matters little.


	5. she-wolf

Lyanna weds Robert with a heavy heart, her infant son in Eddard's arms. The Septon is clearly displeased but says nothing. Robert is king and as such he will have his way. They have forced her into this, promising a secure life for her and Jon. Lyanna knows – as does everybody – what has been done to Elia's children. And because she knows and she is first and foremost a mother, Lyanna accepts Robert's suit. Her life in exchange for her son's.

Day and night, she has to endure seeing Robert's face, the face of her true husband's killer. For even as she promises love and faith, her thought are on the mate of her soul, on Rhaegar with his silver hair and violet eyes and sad, sad smile. When Robert comes to her bed reeking of wine and drunk out of his mind and demanding and more often than not violent, she submits to his touch, saving her tears for when he is no longer conscious. And thus the years pass over her and her son, whom they call Jon Snow.

She gives the King no sons, her womb refuses to take his seed. And truthfully Lyanna is glad for it. Let his put his children in other women.

Then, when her boy is hardly old enough to climb a horse, the unthinkable happens. Somehow he has managed to climb into one of the towers – her son is no climber, her son hardly leaves her sight – or so they say and he slipped. They give her his small, mangled body. Lyanna doesn't have to look at Robert to know his reaction, and she doesn't have to think twice about what she'll do.

On the night when he creeps into her room, barring the door, Lyanna waits for him, candles burning brightly. She allows him the use of her body, as she's always done, and waits until sleep takes him. The hair pin on the table glints. She stretches out for it, wrapping trembling fingers against the gold. Before a second can pass, the metal is embedded into Robert's throat, a pillow coming down to muffle his cry. Lyanna presses down with all her strength, barely feeling the sticky, red substance that has started slithering down, being soaked in her dress.

"He was mine," she hisses at the bubbling blood. "You had no right. No right, to take him from me." Is she speaking of Rhaegar or of Jon? Not even she knows. The only thing she is aware of is that the dawn is breaking.


	6. the maid

Tyta helps little Roslin into her dress, both with tears streaming down their cheeks. "Remember to smile," the older sister says, "and you needn't fear what is to follow." Out of all her sisters she loves Roslin best, because they are most alike in appearance and in comport. "Just close your eyes and go far away in your mind."

"I don't want to do this," the younger sobs, crumpling the fine silk of her skirts. Neither does Tyta but their father has spoken, and they are powerless to stop him, least they cost their brothers their lives.

Hugging Roslin to her, Tyta tries to offer some comfort. Maybe the Gods will take pity and help them. Although Tyta is sceptical, for the Gods have stopped listening to their prayers a long time ago. But she'll try either way for Roslin and her happiness. "I shall pray to the Maiden and to the Mother for you."

"Best pray for yourself girl," Wader Frey says, standing in the doorway. "I've come to see that you are ready." This time he speaks to Roslin. "Leave us. I'll speak with your sister alone."

Father has always hated her, Tyta thinks. Not because her mother died birthing her, and certainly not for her love of books and learning, but for her uselessness. Tyta the Maid, they call her. She's never been married, so naturally she's brought little to her family. But Tyta has been loved and this she refuses to share with the rest of them, save Roslin whom she loves as her own.

In truth Tyta is no maid. She loved a silver haired man, with a white cloak and a sword of stars. And though she has nothing of him to hold, she holds him in her heart, safely hidden among her memories.


	7. high hopes

Jon knows she is Sansa. Alayne Stone may have brown hair, but the roots are red, and he sees that. Her eyes are Tully blue. Her mouth curves into a smile like Lady Catelyn's. Robb is dead. Bran, Arya and Rickon are nowhere to be found. And Sansa – Sansa who goes by Alayne Stone – holds a small bundle in her arms.

The babe is small are red-faced still, or maybe it is the cold that reddens his cheeks. Red hair curls in rich ringlets. "What is his name?"

"Leyton," Sansa, or should he call her Alayne, replies, eyes staring at the corpse on the bed. "Snow," she adds after a brief silence. "Leyton Snow." She rocks the babe gently, a child with a child. "He was going to marry me."

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Jon wonders how she can be so sure of it. But Sansa explains it even without him asking. "I had such high hopes when he called me his little wolf."

Leyton fusses in her arms, dark eyes reminiscent of his father's. "Leyton Stark," Jon says moments later. He falls on one knee. "The North awaits its Queen. Do they know?"

"Only Willas knew." Sansa waits for Jon to get up before giving him the babe. She pulls the sheets over the dead man. "Take me home, Jon."


	8. death ends a life, not a relationship

Rhaegar trudges up the stairwell, half-mad with grief and filled with rage. In his wake the bodies of enemies lie still and unbreathing. _("You took her from me. You took her and killed her!" Oberyn Martell yells. "And I've taken yours in return. It's only fair, good-brother.") _It's too late, he knows, but still a small part of him dares to hope that all isn't lost.

Only, of course, that all is lost. Oberyn is many things, but a liar isn't one of them. _("I've taken yours in return.")_ Lyanna has been dealt with in precisely the same manner Elia had. Rhaegar struggles to keep the contents of his stomach from spilling out at the sight of her. _("The Mountain stabbed the little Princess over and over and bashed the baby's skull in. Princess Elia, he defiled her." Jon Connington is silent after that for a long time.)_ Shaking hands touch the once white flesh. Stained red, lacerations open and sour, she looks nothing like the woman he left behind.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he tells her, taking her stiff hand in his. She's cold. As if his regret can breath life back into her. As if mere words can bring back the second son he's lost. Elia had been ash by the time he got to King's Landing. His words had meant nothing to her too. "Lyanna, I'm sorry, my love." He bends his head down, willing the nightmare away, willing her to open her eyes. "Lyanna, please!"

_("That little bitch of yours couldn't even fight by the end. I did her a kindness by slashing her throat. It's more than your knights did for my sister," Oberyn spits.) _For Oberyn it's always been about Elia. He raises Lyanna's head gently, mindful of the wound splitting her neck open. Without the scent of decay and the look of horror on her face, she could almost look as if she were sleeping. Wrapping her in his arms, Rhaegar finally allows himself to cry. Loud, long sobs that make him shake.

He'd wanted to give her the world, not lose his along with her. His lips touch her frosty ones. Rhaegar kisses death like he's never kissed anyone else, wild and raging and too full of emotion. He is not completely careless, but it doesn't matter, because her waxen flesh cannot bruise. "I'll not leave you here, love," he whispers into her mouth, stroking her dark tresses.


	9. scaled tailed wolves

Benjen takes the black and Lyanna takes the frozen throne of the North in the name of her son. Jon is just a babe, and Lyanna will do whatever she must to protect him. Catelyn Tully Stark has yet to give birth and the she-wolf knows that even when she does the northern Houses will still support her claim. the Tullys are of the South and the North remembers.

She doesn't ride to battle, nor does she promise to share her kingdom or her rule with anyone. But when push comes to shove, her armies still push the Baratheon banners away. Roberts writes that he loves her and he wants her as his Queen, but Lyanna knows what it is to have been loved and she does not allow herself to be fooled. Roberts wants a trophy.

When Catelyn's son is born, Lyanna can see no trace of Eddard in him. Still, she reckons that the boy is much like her own. "Let them have a joint reign." One shall be the warrior and the other the thinker. Lyanna smiles at Catelyn. "And we'll have peace."

So the north loses its Lord, but gains two Queens who are closer than sisters and fiercer than wolves. And children who are only half-wolves, the other half all scales, grow in the bitter winters.


	10. for what was lost

Bael sinks to his knees in the dank, dark crypt, holding the woman's waist between powerful hands. "Come with me." It is a selfish thing to ask of her. This kneeler woman with eyes of steel and sharp grins and dreams, dreams underneath her too-serious face. "We can live together, free. Beyond the wall." Her small, lithe form trembles at the half-promise. He can see the longing in her face. So close, he is so close.

He glides his hands along her naked hips, the joy of her body calling to him again. She allows him to pull her atop, legs parting to make way for him. Her head is buried in his neck, her breathing coming short. "I will teach you the ways of the free men." She is wound up around him, warm and sweet and if pleasure could kill, Bael wouldn't mind so long as it comes by her hands. Nay, he thinks, he would die for this woman, but he would rather live for – with – her. "Be mine."

"I am yours," she whispers against his skin, her voice a soft caress. His seed runs along the inside of her thigh and onto his own. "By the old gods, I am yours." Her mouth seeks his hungrily. And again she begs with her body to be fashioned into something of his own making. "But I am a Stark also. I belong to Winterfell as well."

That he has to share her with the walls and ambitions of her father, Bael smarts at it and the anger swells and this time it is the ground against her back and not his hands. This time his hips punish her unwillingness and his mouth plunders and ravages. However much she belongs to him, she doesn't and he wants her so much he thinks he might burst, filled as he is with need. He thought that one taste of her would quell his desire. But once he's taken her, droplets of blood falling onto the ground, he only grows to crave her more. "What do I have to do for you to follow me beyond the wall?"

.

.

.

"If it is a daughter, I shall join you," she tells him, lying onto him, her once tiny waist slightly expanded. "If it is a son, I must stay and see him the proper lord when my father dies. "

Bael prays for a daughter. He prays they only have daughters, in fact. Daughters with her hair, eyes, sharp smiles and too-serious faces. How can he bear to let her go now, after he's known the feel of her against him when they sleep? How can he let her go without tearing his heart to shreds? Gods forgive him, but he would sling her over his shoulders and see her out of this place with her consent or without. And yet the thought of such fine eyes laying blame on him makes a sharp pain in his chest.

.

.

.

She gives him a son in the end. Proud mother, the she-wolf cradles the babe to her breast watching the infant suckle. "A boy, a lord for my home."

And just like that understanding dawns upon Bael. He loves her, he loves her so much, yet she loves her home. She would do anything for her home. "Why did you come with me here?" Gods damn it. Angered again, he stands up and moves away from her.

That very night he leaves, swearing to himself that he will never come back. The harsh wind cuts his cheeks, just like her tears had when she begged him to stay awhile longer. "I do love you. Come back to me." Never. Bael promises her in his grief. "Never again will I let you fool me, woman. "

.

.

.

Five years past, Bael finds himself again in her presence. She is the Lady of Winterfell, acting as regent to her son. Bael does not want to hear about the child or see him. If he looks upon the boy's face, he will love him and this man desperately wants to cling to his bitterness and his pain. So he takes his woman roughly and seals her mouth close with kisses unnumbered.

But as luck would have it, he wakes in the middle of the night to the creaking of the door and a pair of wide eyes looking upon the stranger in the house. His son looks like his mother as far as eyes and mouth go, but the rest of him is Bael. His heart squeezes in his chest and he makes a sign for the child to be quiet. The boy climbs into the bed and under the covers.

"Are you my father?"

.

.

.

They fight upon snow and ice, father and son clash swords. Bael loses on purpose, of course. He can't bring himself to plunge the sword into the chest of this kneeler. It's those eyes and that face that has grown too-serious.

The boy, though, has no compunction about bringing down his sword. Bael smiles sadly. This is his seed and blood, this is what was born out of his love for her. All this for her. "Do it!" And he feels the pain of it briefly.

In his mind he can see her smile and her eyes light up, and wistfully he wonders what could have been had it been a girl that was born to them.


	11. summer child

i. Jon knows the person before him to be a woman even before she screams in a distinctively female voice. "No! Don't kill him!" she begs, covering the old crow's body with her own slight frame. His face twists in compassion, but the man she protects would likely wish to die rather than become their prisoner.

His companions are prepared to cut her throat and get her out of the way. He can see the sword coming down, and at the last moment he decides to act, deflecting the blow. "She's mine." So instead of having her head cut off, she's heaved onto his shoulder, struggling and kicking.

ii. "You southrons are a strange lot," Jon says, staring into the eyes of his would-be killer. "I spared your life and this is how you replay me." There is no outrage in his voice, rather it is wonder.

Lyanna Mormont's eyes sparkle in the dim firelight. She holds onto the knife she's managed to pull off of some unsuspecting man. "You've let him die. My uncle. You've murdered him." There are no tears.

"I did not touch him," he contradicts her softly. "It was you I fought and you I took as mine."

"I'm not yours," Lyanna protests, the weapon closing in on his neck, a breath away from drawing blood.

He kisses her, uncaring of the wound he just inflicts upon himself.

iii. Soon enough she's wearing one of his furs over her shoulders to protect her from the cold. The only thing she has left of her stay with the crows is a pair of black boots and the piece of a black cloak that she's strangely protective of. Even so she has no problem sliding under the covers with Jon when the night falls.

There is one thing she is grateful of. The wildling never tries to touch her. Despite the fact that he claims she is his and he may have his will of her if he so wishes, he hasn't tried even once to do anything more than warm.

iv. Blood falls on the ground, and Jon skillfully ducks out of the way after having delivered his blow. His opponent falls to the ground. Lyanna has half a mind to tell him to stop as he continues to rain punches down on the man, seemingly preferring his fists to his other weapons. Alas she has enough trouble getting up from the ground, and no real desire to save the man's life.

When he's done, Jon climbs off and wipes the blood away from his hands. He pays no attention to the curious onlookers. Instead he steps towards Lyanna and hauls her up. "Get inside," he growls, his too serious face touched by a sort of wildness she's not yet seen in him. He pushes her in front of him, the people parting to make way for them.

Later after he's left her huddled under the furs in their hut, she hears his voice outside. "Anyone daring enough to touch her will share the same fate. She's mine." And this time it brings a thrill and not dread.

v. "Summer child," Jon whispers in her hair as she shivers even wrapped in his arms. "Southrons." Though he says it teasingly, without malice.

"I am not of the South." They've had this conversation over and over. She tells him she's from the North and he dismisses her words with a lazy smile.

"You are a summer child. And a southron." But he kisses her all the same. "And mine. You are my southron summer child," he presses on, pulling her tighter against him.

And because she recognizes the truth in his words, Lyanna allows him more than kisses and tentative touches for the first time.


	12. dawn of an age

i. The wind howls and shakes the skins at the entrance, Lyanna burrows deeper into Jon, her back against his front, and feels her cheeks flush as flesh touches flesh. She lifts her head gingerly and over her shoulder looks to the entrance. There is nothing to be seen. The young woman shakes her head. 'Tis folly. Jon has kept them safe up to now and he will continue to do so. "Just the wind," she whispers against his skin, settling down once more. There is something about the days becoming shorter and the weather colder and colder still.

She must have disturbed her partner somehow, for Jon wakes with a groan, the arm wrapped around her coiling harder. "Why do you not sleep?" he asks, voice heavy still.

"Something woke me," Lyanna replies, shifting, trying to draw herself away. His snarl stops her sort and her progress is unravelled by a tug of his arm. Pressed even tighter against him, Lyanna shudders. His hand trails down her back. "I shall find sleep again."

"You shall," Jon agrees. He slips inside of her like a sword finding sheath. Lyanna gives a whimper, of pain or pleasure, it is unclear. Jon other arm wraps around her too, but his fingers come up to the swell of her breast. "Does the cold bother you?"

"Nay." And then he starts moving against her. How can she be cold when she sleeps with her body glued to his? He is much like a furnace, forever warm, hot underneath her fingertips, against her skin. Now his heat surges through her. "One day we'll melt the snow," she breaths out.

Smooth lips press against her neck and shoulder. He quickens his pace, angling her head to reach her lips. "So long as it is you and I."

ii. Occasional clashes come to pass among the Wildlings. Lyanna has learned that for the much part they are content to keep to their borders, but sometimes they raid on neighbours. None think too harshly on it. It is the way of things.

She washes the wound on Jon's back with care as she stretches against the furs. "Woman, it is nothing to be worried over." He says he's had worse. To Lyanna it doesn't signify. "You cry over the likes of this cut and you'll make me look weak."

The cut, as he refers to it, is a long slash against his back. It is not a simple graze, having some depth to it. "I am not crying," she protests, pressing the cloth a bit too hard against his back. She doesn't apologise. Jon hisses in discomfort, but more to chide her than to express pain. "I only want you to be well."

iii. It is the soft cry that alerts Lyanna of the intruder. The sound is weak and shrill. Lyanna takes a dagger and heads to the back of the hut. She keeps the weapon raised, prepared to strike at the first sign of danger. She does not expect what she finds.

There, underneath a clump of straw is a white ball of fur. It snarls at her approach, small red eyes taking her in. Lyanna crouches to the ground. A wolf. Or something the like. It is so small. Lyanna crouches and places the dagger on the ground. She snaps forward and catches the beast between her palms. It squirms against her hold and it takes settling the animal to her chest to obtain its cooperation. "All is well, little one, I shan't hurt you." She wonders briefly where the mother is. There are specks of dries blood on the fur, so Lyanna think the she-wolf is long gone at any rate. "I'll care for you."

She brings the wolf into her house. Jon is yet at the hunt. He'll be back later, but by then Lyanna hopes the guest will have settled in. She searches for the milk and fills a small bowl of it. The poor darling must be hungry. Kneeling she places the animal on her lap. A boy, she notices. He sniffles at the food, dips his tongue in to taste and after deeming it appropriate drinks his fill. Lyanna pates the white fur of his back.

iv. "You are mad," Jon accuses her when he find her with the beast on her lap. Lyanna circles her hands protectively around the pup. Her glare doesn't seem to affect Jon much. "You will kill us."

"Not if we raise him right." Her eyes beg him to reconsider. "Please, Jon. He is just a pup. He'll die out there if we send him away."

Jon grumbles. His eyes narrow at the red-stare of the wolf. How is it that this woman has him bending over to please her? "Fine. But at the first sign if trouble, I'm taking its head off."

"It is a he." Lyanna ruffles the fur on the little beast and Jon let out a small growl. "You should name him." Her suggestion is met with resistance. Later, the pup crawl from the corner under the covers and Jon wakes with a curse upon his lips. The ball of fur is content where it sits. "Curse you and your stupid pet," Jon mumbles, his eyes throwing danger to Lyanna's sleeping face.

v. Cut flesh and impossibly blue eyes. Lyanna takes in the sight of a man who had disappeared days ago. "Vargho," she says, now remembering his name. "We were worried for you." He does not reply, staring straight ahead. "Vargho," Lyanna tries again, stepping closer to him.

Unexpectedly the man jumps at her, thick fingers finding her neck and squeezing. She tries to scream but it's already too late. All she manages to do is chokes out a weak sound. Lyanna pushes against the man. One hand searches for the dagger she carries with her. The lack of air makes her hazy. Her small hand grips the cool metal and she brings it, with all the force she can muster, down upon Vargho's head. It slashes through the skin and bone breaks, yet he does not let go.

A growl comes from behind her, and suddenly she's on the ground, free. Ghost has jumped upon the foul creature, fangs tearing into him. Jon yells something and the direwolf draws back. Lyanna is picked up and she can make out the men screaming fire.

"And you did not want him," Lyanna speaks quietly. "I told you we should keep him." Ghost bounds up to them, sniffing at Jon's legs.

Jon simply clutches her tighter to his chest, eyes checking her for wounds. "He has his uses," the man admits when her stare does not go away from him. Then he looks to Ghost. "Well done, boy." His attention snaps back to his woman. "Can you walk?"

Nodding solemnly, Lyanna waits for him to place her back on her feet. "I am fine. You go here just in time." Shaken. Scared. And sore-throated. Otherwise she is fine. "What was that?"

"Silly summer child," Jon scoffs. "This is why you should have never left that damned wall." Alas his hands push her into a scorching kiss. Lyanna shudders helplessly. "Don't leave my side," he tells her seriously. Turning to the people that have gathered, Jon gives order that they are to move southwards.


	13. gets under your skin

Jaehaera often finds herself wondering if her King remembers how to smile. Can he turn his lips in a crescent that expresses joy, or even amusement? The man sits across from her at the table, studiously avoiding her gaze. He concentrates on his food, but the way he chews indicates that it could have as well been ashes in his plate and he would have been just as well pleased with those. She swallows the piece of meat in a mirror of her husband's actions but her mind is a thousand miles away.

He knew how to smile when she was a little girl. He knew how to laugh as well. She remembers the warmth of those smiles. Jaehaera sees the young boy he'd once been and her chest tightens with the joy-pain of it. He caught her once as she was about to fall. He had been nigh seven years of age. She had had four years then. Their grandfather had still been alive at that time.

"Why do you smile, my lady?" his voice breaks through the fog of her thoughts. Jaehaera looks up. He watches her with eyes like two chips of ice. She wonders if her face gives anything away. It is not likely for he feels the need to ask again, "What amuses you?"

"I-" she begins and then stops. She cannot tell him. Her lips part as if to give in a reason or buy herself more time. Jaehaera sighs. He eyes her still, the slightest hint of contempt hidden behind a wall of cold curtsey. She drops her head and a plate of stewed vegetables appears in front of her. Green peas catch her eye. "You are not partial to peas." She looks up.

Something shifts in his gaze. They had attended a banquet, sometime before their grandfather's death and they'd been served pea soup amongst others. "You remember." He does not smile and he does not look pleased. How does he feel?

"How could I forget?" Her voice is strained. She hates herself for that. It had been one of the last moments of carefree happiness. She scoops the peas on her plate. "Threat averted." When they were children she helped him make the bowl of soup disappear. "I don't know if I managed to get all of them."

Aegon remains silent. He studies her now and his eyes have lost some of their chill. He extends his hand and takes his own spoon to the plate of vegetables. He clears the parsnip away without a word. He is diligent. Jaehaera hides the smile that threatens to bloom on her face. Parsnip does not agree with her.

They continue their meal in silence that is if not amiable, not an arrow to her heart. Now she really is sure her husband does not remember how to smile. It is too painful for him. He used to smile and laugh when his mother was alive. That woman could make anyone smile. Jaehaera lifts a spoonful of peas to her lips and shudders when she catches a bit of the Dornish peppers she has been trying to avoid of late. Her mouth burns and her eyes water. She cannot possibly spit the vile thing out. Jaehaera swallows. With difficulty.

Her husband is watching her with curiosity again. She ignores the urge to stare back. Instead she wraps her fingers around her cup of sweet wine. His gaze is insistent. A blush burns her cheeks. Is it the peppers or the attention? Jaehaera gives up trying to find out. She licks her lips and takes a sip of the wine.

"Is aught amiss?" he finally asks. She wants his attention. She needs more than the polite indifference he graces her with most times.

"Nay." Right now she is actually proud of her composure. His eyes narrowed into slits. Jaehaera holds on to her mask. Her fingers twist the material of her skirts. The urge to rear away from him she stamps with conviction she did not she possessed. Convincing herself that she is in no danger, Jaehaera continues her game.

"Jaeheara." Her name falls from his lips, a whip crack, an order. She holds her breath. Aegon leans in towards her, but thankfully the table between them is quite large, so as to render his movement a mere drop in the ocean. He could barely even reach her hands had they been on the table. Which they aren't. "Jaehaera!" he repeats, louder this time.

Her fingers ache. She looks down at her lap. Of course they would. She'd been twisting them into the folds of her dress, holding them so stiffly it's a wonder they haven't fallen off. She lets go and flexes her fingers. "I believe I am not hungry any longer." She sits still.

It is bad form to rise before the King does. Even as his wife, she is to wait until he is done and only then can she take to her own feet. Aegon gives her a sharp look, but he is in no hurry to rise. He motions the cup bearers away. They retreat. She returns her eyes to his face. A battle of wills commences.

Jaehaera has been, for as long as she could remember, a placid, calm, reserved sort of woman. Anger to her is an icy calmness and joy is a bright smile. She is not fond of exhibiting her emotions. She does not want people studying her. It's a misfortune to have been born a princess with her disposition. Right now, though, she wishes she had been different. More like aunt Rhaenyra. This rage coursing through her veins is not of her own making. She does not feel so strongly. A princess, and for that matter a queen, does not allow her temper to rule her.

Aegon rises to his feet, towering over her seated form. "We shall discuss later." He stalks past her as she too stands, but she can swear she hears him chocking back a sound. Whether it is irritation or something else, she cannot tell.


	14. keep me here

i. He is used to this kind of life. The unknown woman sleeping at his side stirs, unintentionally moving the length of her body – which is not very much, he must admit – against him. He can feel her breasts pushing into him and he reacts accordingly. But he won't be too hard on himself; still hazy with sleep and in bed with an undoubtedly beautiful woman, his reaction is only natural. Arthur caresses her side and is pleased to find her quick to respond. The woman – he cannot remember her name – presses closer into him. It seems that his body will be more than happy to accommodate her.

Now she is fully awake, looking up at him with brown eyes. She seems ready to talk, so Arthur bends his head down and steals her lips in a passionate kiss. She is somewhat shy. It is easy to tell her experience is scant, but he doesn't really mind. While he prefers women of some experience, he is not opposed to the occasional ingénue. He slides lower to her neck, laving the skin with kisses and nips. She whispers and shudders. Yes, he hardly minds. Lower and lower he goes, encouraged by her pleasure, which is so artlessly expressed. Arthur is flattered.

Eager fingers twine in his hair as he finds her breasts with some wonder. They are indeed rather modest, but warm and pleasant enough to bury his face in, so Arthur goes on and even further. Grinding against her at a languid pace, he has the pleasure of hearing her release a deep moan. "You like that, don't you?" he asks, looking up from his current position.

She startles and her face blushes harder. Nonetheless she braves a reply, "Yes."

ii. Tyta barely resists the urge to beat herself up over her foolish decision. The elevator moves at the pace of a snail, or so it seems to her, trapped as she is with the stranger who has intimately known her barely half an hour ago. She doesn't even know how to act.

She curses her luck, and her friends for convincing her to try this – just once, for curiosity's sake. Cersei Lannister might get away with something like this and enjoy it, Elia Martell too. Lyanna would probably never find herself in such a situation, as for Catelyn, she wasn't even at the bar with them. So what is her excuse for going out and sleeping with complete strangers? Tyta blames it entirely on her good-for-nothing, idiotic fiancé. Or rather her ex-fiancé.

Tyta just doesn't understand how she got here. Good God, she'll never listen to Cersei again. Now she is sure she should've stayed home with a carton of ice-cream and some old movies. The man is smirking at her. Tyta blanches; she doesn't even know his name, damn it all! And she has slept with him – twice.

"Excuse me," she speaks softly, brushing past him and walking as fast as her heeled shoes allow her.

iii. "It's not like you to be late," Lyanna comments, but hands her a plastic cup of coffee anyway, because they've been friends forever. She regards Tyta for the longest time in silence. Lyanna is one of those women who was lucky enough to meet the perfect man when still in high school and stick with him through thick and thin. Eventually that got a ring on her finger and in about six months she'll have a baby to show for it too.

"I did something stupid," Tyta confesses. She buries her face in her hands, not because she wants to cry, but because she is exasperated at her own folly. "I thought this only happened in romantic comedies." Apparently her life is one big romantic comedy – expect it lacks humour.

"Do you want to talk about it?" her friend asks, looking at her watch. "I still have half an hour before my doctor's appointment."

"Is Rhaegar picking you up again?" It's surprisingly cute to see how in love those two are. "Or are you going alone this time?"

"No chance. I told him he doesn't have to, but apparently it's much too important for him not to." They share a smile. "But we're off topic."

iv. "Well I didn't tell you to sleep with the man!" Cersei laughs, attracting the attention of other customers. Tyta has a hard time shushing her. "Oh, poor little Frey girl, afraid people will find out you've done something naughty?"

"Sometimes I think you take delight in vexing me," Tyta answers. "But anyway, I've done nothing wrong."

"Then act like it," the blonde demands. "Besides, it was about time, if you ask me. And even if you don't ask me." As if Cersei has ever needed any encouragement to speak. Tyta levels a glare her way. "At least you've managed to get that moron off your back for good," she comments, blowing gently on her coffee. "I was starting to think I should lend you Jaime."

"You can't do that, Cersei. He's your cousin!" Tyta protests, rather appalled at her friend's habit of treating people as if they were inanimate objects.

The blonde looks confused. "I'm sorry, I'm not following."

Tyta groans. "He is your cousin. Family. Understand?" The concept shouldn't pose such a great problem.

"And?" Cersei looks at her expectantly and a tad dubious. "I'm still not sure what you're trying to say, little Frey."

"Never mind, I give up."

v. Tyta lies awake in bed and wonders what are the chances of Cregan Hill taking her back now. She could accept his terms – after all, he only asked that she move in with him, give up her job and started a nursery, post-haste – it's not that big a sacrifice and she is no longer in danger of embarrassing herself on their wedding night – or even tomorrow night – as she has gained experience.

Her hand reaches for her phone. Tyta bites her lower lip in indecision. Should she message? Should she not message? Her eyes dart to the roses on the table. A pity they are too beautiful to assist her in making a decision. Her fingers ghost over the screen. She sucks in a breath.

The beeping of her phone cuts through her trance and takes off at least ten years of her life. On the lit screen a message flashes. _Don't even think about it! – Cersei Lannister _"Seven hells! Does she know everything?" Another message enters her inbox. _Oh please, you're so predictable. – Cersei Lannister_

The phone finds its way somewhere under the bed, from where hopefully Tyta won't hear it if Cersei writes anything else. "I hate that woman."

vi. While Arthur pays little attention to the face of a woman who he has slept with, given their recent encounter and the pleasure derived from said encounter, he is not the least bit surprised that he can recognize her. The woman eyes him with apprehension and puzzlement of her own. Somehow the whole corridor is deserted – perhaps it's the lateness of the hour.

"Don't tell me you actually work here," she says. "Oh, God!" She makes to get past him, but for whatever reason, Arthur blocks her way, his hand touching her shoulder softly as his body becomes a wall before her. The faint scent of her perfume reaches hin nose and he cannot help leaning in.

"How about I give you a lift, Miss Frey?" He pulls back, on account of making her uncomfortable. Her body just radiates that particular feeling. Arthur feels rather like a predator. The coyness only makes her more appealing. He shakes away the desire to act upon his baser impulses. "So?"

"Ah, a lift. I see. Yes, why not." But she is a darling creature. "I would like that." And with that he is reminded about other things she likes.

"You would, wouldn't you? Come on then."

vii. He accidentally brushes against her and doesn't quite know which of them is the more wretched for it. Right now, Arthur simply wants to stop the elevator and have her right here – cameras notwithstanding, he cannot bring himself to deliberately touch her unless it is to rid her of her clothes and that he would never do in such a public place on account of being a gentleman and not some beast without a shred of control. This is not like him.

For the rest of the way he is distracted from the woman's charms – or at least he tries to let himself be so. She rattles off her address, which is surprisingly enough somewhat close to the residence of one of his friends. The drive is short and all too soon they've reached their destination.

"Would you like to come up?" she shyly invites. She babbles on something about coffee, tea and other drinks. All that Arthur can think about is the inviting shape of her mouth. He wants to kiss her. He should definitely kiss her.

It takes a few moments to process what she's saying. But the implications are obvious enough to him. He smiles at her. "I would like that."

viii. Drinks forgotten sometime in the interim, Arthur has the woman sit astride him, busily unclasping the buttons of her shirt. The skirt rides up her thighs, leaving her now unclothed legs to his perusal. She kisses him back hungrily, hands clinging to his shoulders. Arthur would be lying if he said he did not like her eagerness. She has little finesse and more impatience than those better skilled, but she rubs against him in a manner that leaves no doubt in his mind that if they don't cease and desist, he will end up once more in bed with her. He pulls back from her lips, "We should probably stop, Miss Frey."

"My name is Tyta, Mr Dayne," she corrects him, "and it's late already. You should stay the night."

It's Friday. Thank God it's Friday. Arthur needs no more encouragement to find the zipper at the back of her skirt and pull it down. She is the sort of lover that makes it difficult to be careful. For him she is all sweet pants and moans. They click together. Arthur's teeth scrape at her pulse point.

It is also worth noting that they do not make it to the bed – at least not for a good many hours.

ix. Why does she do this to herself? Tyta has no idea. Absolutely none. Nevertheless, here she is, straddling a man she barely knows – he's practically a stranger. There's no going back to Cregan after this. She can't ever go back to him now. Those stale kisses of his are sure to murder her. She cannot even conceive making love to the man, let alone accepting his ridiculous marriage proposal.

Her fingers find purchase in his hair as he feeds his lust on her bosom. He lets out a groan when her dry lips make contact with his jaw and somehow he pulls her even closer, though Tyta didn't think it possible. She moans something incoherent as his fingers pull at taut strings. It might even be a confession of the effect he has on her. Tyta tries to hold back, she really does, but how can anyone be expected to keep their wits about them when their skin melts right off their bones.

When he enters her she hisses at the feeling. Although she was ready for the intrusion, he is somewhat large and she still somewhat new to it all.

"Relax, darling," he soothes, keeping her still by the hips. His grip holds her down firmly. "Easy now."

x. Sex, she finds, is not always the pleasurable activity described in those ridiculous romancer novels every woman has read at least once. But Tyta comes to understand that she much prefers to let her partner take the lead, and she files that piece of information. Arthur is good at reading the signs. He manoeuvres them into a new position and Tyta feels that much better for it.

The wet slide of his skin on hers increases her pleasure. She locks her legs more securely around him, trying to draw him in deeper. His appreciation is made clear by a particular deep thrust. She rewards him with an encouraging moan.

This time she cannot use the excuse of bad advice and alcohol, she realises dimly. Not that she is searching for any such excuse. The woman acquiesces to the demanding lips that cover her own. Then there is something. A knot threatens to come loose. "Arthur," she calls out instinctively, nails biting into his skin. He keeps his insistent pace, whispering encouragement and praise in her ear. She cannot hold on much longer.

"Let go, sweetheart." And she does. Tyta doesn't exactly know if she managed to alert the whole neighbourhood of exactly what sort of entertaining she is having, and she likely doesn't want to know.

xi. Arthur wakes up in the middle of the night – or rather very early, ungodly so. As to why, he had no idea whatsoever. But he finds that he's quite unwilling to move. He should get up and dress himself. He should walk right out the door. It is rare for him to spend the night with any of his paramours and he certainly avoids visiting their homes. There is something rather personal about this private space. Yet here he is, wrapped in the arms of a woman he knows nothing about, except her name and the fact that she is very satisfying in bed.

His eyes narrow into slits. By the looks of this place she is an eminently practical being. She currently lives alone, or she would not have invited him up. She must not be in an emotionally engaging relationship at the moment. She is obviously not very experienced. He wonders why she doesn't find someone after her own mind.

Something gleams in the dim light coming from outside. Arthur's eyes focus on the item. It clearly is a ring. A woman's engagement ring, if he is not mistaken. He looks down at his sleeping partner. His arm stretches over her, fingers gripping the round object.

xii. He wakes her with a rough pull, sliding a knee between her legs, knocking them apart. She complies with a small groan. There is something feral in his kisses and the bite of his teeth on her shoulder. There are no cuts on her skin, but she whimpers and shivers, pulling on his hair as the marks redden angrily. Tyta doesn't understand, but she can feel the anger. Whatever bothers him, she tries to smooth it over. Alas he is not easily appeased.

Not until he is sheathed all the way inside of her does he slow himself any. It must be a nightmare, she concludes, wrapping her arms around his neck. Tyta tries to kiss his lips but he avoids contact, opting to hide his face in her shoulder. She feels rejected. And it stings. A moment later she feels his angry rhythm give way to sporadic thrusts and she knows it's over. Tyta drops her legs from around his waist and he pulls back as if he'd been burned.

Stupid. Foolish. Idiotic. He rolls over and evacuates her bed in search of his clothing. "I'll see you around," he tells her after he is fully dressed.

They both know it's a lie.

Tyta nods absently and hides beneath the covers.

xiii. The hot water does nothing to help. Tyta grimaces at her reflection in the mirror. She absolutely hates the way she feels. Helpless and distraught and hurt, damn it all. What had she been thinking? In her heart she knows she has been expecting this. Not because she has some flaw, or because of a notion of inferiority. But for the simple fact that usually one night stands tended to remain just that. Tyta is not an idealist. But she is not a pessimist either, though it seems that life is out to prove her wrong.

She spends too much time in her wallowing and as a result she is late for work. She hopes with all her heart that she won't see his face at all today. She doesn't have the stomach for it.

The rest of her day is blessedly uneventful. Also she has her hands full. It all conspires to leave her with too little time to think about her emotional tangle, which Tyta is grateful for. She will make sure to thank whatever deity is listening for it.

Sleep comes with great difficulty when she finally gets home, but Tyta studiously ignores the feeling of misplacement and stubbornly closes her eyes.

xiv. He had tried everything and at this moment he is desperate. Arthur helps the woman in the cab and ignores her inviting smile. Gods, he does want to go and lose himself in her. But he can't. The last time he did, he ended up with the complete wrong name on his lips. His cheek remembers the sting.

"Are you sure you can't come with me?" the woman asks, just to be certain. "I'll feel bad for leaving you here all alone.

"You don't have to." He gives her a smile and closes the door.

The cab drives away and he returns inside the bar, not even thinking about the night of good fun he's just lost. He met her in this bar. Arthur orders another drink and looks around. Maybe, just maybe she's lurking in one of the dark corners. But no, she isn't.

Fuck it all. He downs the drink. And asks for another. And another, And then another. He'll conquer this somehow. One way or another, Tyta Frey is going to be thrown in a small back at the back of his mind. Dam her and damn all these feelings that threaten to burst through his chest.

xv. "Could you fill in for her? Just today," Maedge promises, handing Tyta a stack of papers. "You really just need to see these stamped and arrange them in chronological order. She'd be really grateful."

When they call her in on her off day, Tyta is pretty annoyed. But then she finds out the colleague who is missing has an important even in the family so she lets go of the negative feelings and agrees to help. It's just for today, after all. She tell herself that all will be fine.

Tyta makes her way to the office she'll work in today. She places the papers on the desk and turns the computer on.

However, before she can do much of anything a knock on the door interrupts her. She lifts her head and regrets it instantly.

"Arthur." And that's it. That's all that she can say. Tyta stares at him dumbfounded. And he returns the stare. She can't say anything else or she'll end up telling him that she misses him and wants his back, which is ridiculous as she's never really had him in any capacity. She doesn't want him to know any of this.

The door is closed with a sharp sound.

xvi. Hows and whys are really not important when his lips are on hers and he presses her against him. Tyta melts, voluntarily, in his arms. She doesn't mind the papers that fall off the table when he lifts her up. She doesn't mind it because she had to rearrange them anyway. The only thing she can think about is the fact that Arthur is here, in her arms, kissing her. Kissing her. He's a good kisser. She likes the way he holds her and the way he kisses her. She likes him, full stop. And that's that apparently; logic flies out the window.

But then he pulls back and starts apologising and Tyta becomes really confused because he's not really making sense. She just wants to return to the kissing part. She tries to get a word in, but he's not listening. Or rather he's not listening to her. Arthur just shakes his head when she opens her mouth and, not literally, runs away.

Tyta blinks away the confusion. Maybe it is just her. Maybe she'd been suffering alone all along. That is a painful and disconcerting thought. But the pain is a good thing; it helps clear up things.

xvii. He waits for her to get off work. In the meantime Arthur berates himself for having behaved like an idiot. What has he done? He'll be lucky if she even looks at him now. He takes a sip of his coffee, hoping that somehow it'll knock sense back in his mind.

And then Tyta walks out the doors. Arthur stands up to follow, or maybe to call out to her and catch up, but the strangest sight appears before him.

A man accosts her. He places a hand on her arm, a splay of fingers, curling around her elbow. She looks familiar with that touch. And the image of her ring comes back. Arthur tries to remember if she had the ring today. Did she? His mind draws a blank.

But that does not really matter at the moment, because Tyta is shaking her head empathically and pulling away. Arthur is already on his feet and walking towards the couple that has retreated closer to the building's wall. From their faces it is clear that they are arguing, and Arthur thinks he can finally understand the whole situation better.

So his heart is just a little lighter at this point.

xviii. Predictably enough, there are no grand declarations. Tyta has just returned a circular object into the man's waiting hands. She stress after him for a few moments, a fog descending over her. A light tap on the shoulder brings her back though. She looks over her shoulder and finds it impossible to smile foolishly.

She should hit him with her purse. Instead she allows him to take her hand, long fingers hooking through hers. Tyta hisses at the coolness of his skin and her hand jerks back instinctively. Arthur simply hold onto her tighter.

"I really think we need to start over properly," she says as he leads her to his vehicle of choice. There is no reason for her words other than the fact she wants to glue herself to him in this moment. It is the same strange feeling often found in new couples – that constant craving for togetherness.

And he doesn't seem to mind by the way he smiles back at her. His answer is unexpected in some ways and in others not. "That would require that I at least pretend not to possess some knowledge I am in fact aware of. And I'm really not in the mood for that."

Well, she can't argue with that. Tyta tilts her head back and laughs lightly. "Far be it from me then to force your hand." As if she could.

xix. "I just want you to know that you owe me," Cersei tells her, handing Tyta her drink. "And I expect to be paid for it too."

Tyta rolls her eyes. "I owe you nothing," she murmurs under her breath, taking a sip of the cool beverage. "Stop insisting that you had anything to do with it, because you didn't. Not even a bit. Do you understand?"

"Everything except that lie about me not being vital to your current happiness," the blonde drawls. She is certainly stubborn, Tyta will give her that. A grin makes its way to her lips. "If I hadn't convinced you to go out, you would have wasted a perfectly good opportunity to get with that." She gestures vaguely in Arthur's direction. "Admit it, you owe me."

"If I admit to owing you – and I am not saying that I will, but I do – will you stop and leave me in peace?" Tyta's question is equal parts frustration and equal parts amusement. Cersei does have that effect of people.

"Peace is for the dead," Cersei quips. "But I promise not to call at all the weekend. I suspect you'll be busy anyway."

"You're horrid!"

xx. She thinks that she really shouldn't be surprised when Cersei does call her, bright and early, on a Sunday morning. Muffling a curse against her pillow, Tyta feels around for her phone and a second string of invectives follows when the device crashes to the ground. How does she know it's Cersei, well, Tyta really can't think of anyone evil enough to do something like this but Cersei.

Half bending over the edge of the bed, Tyta looks for the phone but she is swiftly stopped by a hand pulling her back into a warm front. "Just ignore it," Arthur sagely advises, peering over her shoulder. "She'll stop if you ignore it."

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that this is Cersei and it would take more than her ignoring these small disruptions. Arthur doesn't give her the chance though. And soon enough she forgets everything but the warmth and pleasantness.

Some mistakes are only mistakes for a little while and then they bloom into something else entirely. This is one of those situations and Tyta thinks that despite all the tribulations – which admittedly weren't all that spectacular – it fits.

"Yes, I think you might be right."


	15. blood runs stale

Every day, after escaping her Septa's watchful eye, after she needs no longer provide entertainment in her father's hall, Gwyneth Yornwood stands atop the highest cliff and watches for the sails of a galley, hoping in her heart that Quentyn return on it. She stares long and hard after the telltale sign of an approaching ship, keen eyes not missing a detail.

And every day her heart becomes heavy and painful when the sun sets and no sign of a ship appears. She runs back to her father's keep and into the small sept where she prays to the gods. She prays for her brother's safety, his companions' wellbeing and she begs the gods to keep Quentyn in good health. This she asks of them in short, quick breath, fearing that the switch awaits her if she is caught.

Hurrying up the stairs, Gwynethe slips under the covers, next to her bed mate, Myrra. And then she closes her eyes and dreams sweet dreams of a kind Prince who makes her heart beat faster. In these dreams his sober features are relaxed. He looks happy as he drapes a cloak the colour of oranges around her shoulder and the sun kisses them both.


	16. ira

The slap cracks across unfeeling skin, the insult behind the gesture meant to sting. Lyanna looks at the other woman with tranquil eyes. Elia is shaking like a leaf, anger painting her delicate features. "How dare you stand before me?" Her black eyes spark with hatred. This is the loss of her children, the shame she has endured in her own home. "Cursed be the day my eyes landed on you."

"No doubt it already is," Lyanna replies, her smile nothing less than feral.

Elia grimaces at this response, her hands balling into fists. "You have taken everything from me!" she cries out. The recrimination shoots from her lips like a sword. But it still misses its target. Lyanna Stark merely acknowledges the accusation with a small nod. She further derides Elia by glancing at their host, impatience in her grey eyes.

"I have no apology to offer," she speaks, her gaze still on the Stranger. There is a fiendish gleam in her eyes. "What am I but a mere speck of dust? If it please Your Grace." And she lowers herself on her knees, all the way down, her skirts crushed. But then her insolent smile returns and the blood boils in Elia's veins. "I did what I thought best. And I accept whatever judgement you wish to pass upon me. But I will not beg forgiveness for my conscience asks it not of me."

The she-wolf stands to her feet and the Stranger touches her arm, wrapping skeletal fingers around it. "Enough."

"Enough," Lyanna agrees.

And Elia is left to wonder how in the seven hells this creature has managed to bleed her dry. But the ruler of the realm has spoken and here King is the Stranger. Crowned heads bow before him, for his is the power. So Elia must hold her tongue again.

"Your children await you," the Stranger speaks. A door opens and the sweet laughter of a girl reaches Elia's ears. "It is time for the dead to take their rightful place."

For Elia may have won back her children, but Lyanna has won something else.


	17. legământ

Tears run down his face as the knife sinks into the cold flesh of his sweet sister. But Lyanna is unfeeling. And he has made his promises to her. The eyes forever closed, her minutely upturned lips, she looks at peace. It is not right that it should be so. But the Stranger's hand has touched her loving heart the moment she heard that song.

_Promise me, Ned…_and so he does. He wishes he could ignore her words. He does. From a dark corner the babe cries as the blade parts skin and muscle. His wails grow shrill as the heart leaves its ephemeral cage. _Never reveal to anyone this last wish of mine._ Having liberated the tender thing, Ned wraps it in white cloth, the remnants of a white cloak.

Reed had taken the babe, rocking the child gently. But the crying won't stop. It grows louder and louder still as the burns in the small fire. When the last of it is gone, Ned gathers the dust in a pouch and hides it close to his own heart. The child no longer weeps.

_Take me home, brother mine. All of me, but my heart. It has found a new home. Please. Promise me, Ned._

And when he passes through King's Landing he will visit the grave of the fallen prince.

Rhaegar Targaryen has lost the war. Rhaegar Targaryen has lost his life. But Rhaegar Targaryen will forever have Lyanna Stark's heart.


	18. wide-eyed

After the shock of pain there is only silence. Viserys feels something blessedly cool touch the back of his head and cannot help releasing a sigh. This brings memories from his childhood when he used to sit on his mother's lap and she would brush his hair with a pretty gold comb encrusted with jewels.

"Viserys, my sweet, it is time to wake up," a kind voice whispers in his ears, faintly familiar and slightly hushed. "Come, open your eyes, my love. It is I, your mother."

Sluggishly, light violet eyes open, disbelief mirroring in those shining pools. "Mother?" His throat constricts as the image of Rhaella Targaryen forms before his eyes. She looks exactly like she did in those happier days of his childhood. "Mother."

She holds her arms open for him, the invitation clear in her gaze. He feels like a little boy when she clutches him to her chest, whispering sweetly that she had missed him. "I have been waiting." She brushes a wayward curls out of his face. "Let me look at you."

It's the abundant love in her voice that cracks the last vestige of his control and Viserys is flooded by shame. So deep and abiding is this feeling that he must step back and cover his face. "I-" he begins, unsure of what to say.

"I know," Rhaella says, mere moments later. "I am your mother." This time her voice is stronger, a hint of steel hiding beneath her words. "You are my son. Whatever else you may have become, you are my flesh and blood. And I could no more loathe you than I could cut my own heart out."

Stunned, Viserys looks at her with round eyes. He wants to speak, but the words refuse to come. He wants to at least tell her that he loves her for loving him, undeserving as he is of her affection. Rhaella's expression softens. She takes her son's hand in hers.

"A mother will never stop loving her children. She may occasionally be disappointed in their choices. She may be angry at their mischief. And sometimes she does not understand them. But her children will always have a special place in her heart." She smiles benevolently upon her son.

Something crashes against his leg and Viserys looks down, instinctively tensing. A small round face peers up at him, shining black eyes holding hope. It takes no more than a few moments to recall the name that goes along with the face. "Rhaenys."

His niece gives him a wide smile. She hugs his leg tighter and turns her head around. "He looks like father!" she yells to a woman who is rocking a babe. Viserys nods towards the gently smiling Elia Martell. But Rhaenys is already pulling on his sleeve, demanding his attention. "Play with me, uncle Viserys."

Rhaella is laughing lightly. "Oh, do. Play with us Viserys. What shall we play?" his mother asks, bending over slightly. "Perhaps a game of tag."

"Uncle Viserys should choose," Rhaenys decides rather loudly.

Two pairs of eyes turn towards Viserys, one amused and the other excited.

A light feeling settles in his chest. This is when Viserys knows that he can leave behind whatever was and no longer is.


End file.
